Thirteen Hours (41 page)

He glared at Adam Barnard in one photo. Big man full
of confidence. The smile was the same in every photo, the way he looked at the
camera, his body angled slightly, hands around the shoulders or waists of the
artists. He was the very image of success, Mr Beloved, not an enemy in the
world.

Impossible.

And that, Dekker knew, was the source of his
frustration: he was in a dead-end street. The whole investigation was slowly but
surely sinking into a swamp of, fuck it, improbabilities. Nothing made sense
and the whiteys were laughing at him.

And where was Mbali Kaleni?

He walked around the desk, sat down and put his elbows
on the desk, head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He would have to think, he
would have to suppress this anger and think it all through from the beginning,
because none of the pieces fitted together. Josh and Melinda Geyser. Both were
lying. Or neither. The video? The blackmailer? Where
was
Mbali? She had found something
and was following it up, she was going to solve the case and he would look like
a fool. He took his phone out of his pocket and called her number. It rang and
rang and rang.

She would see who was calling, she was ignoring him on
purpose. His temper flared up again, like a wildfire.

Wait, wait, wait. Calm down.

He put his head in his hands again and closed his
eyes. Fuck knew, he would have to pull finger to crack this one.

Concentrate: Adam Barnard was carried into his house,
up the stairs to his drunken wife.

That meant someone who knew his wife passed out, blind
drunk, every night. That meant someone who was strong enough to carry the dead
weight of Adam Barnard. Someone who knew

Barnard had a pistol in the house - and knew where to
find it. Forget Bloemfontein and the blackmailer, there was no way. The
knowledge of the pistol was key.

Who would know?

Josh Geyser? Perhaps. Maybe Melinda too. Knowledge.
Motive. Strength.

But Benny Griessel had said it wasn't Josh. Griessel
was nobody's fool, even though they said he used to drink like a fish. Was
Griessel mistaken, how much of the new Captain's attention was on the
churchyard murder? He was only human after all ... Knowledge of the pistol. How
many people would know that? Alexa Barnard, another one pronounced innocent by
Griessel, an alcoholic woman. Was Benny being objective? As a sister-in-drink,
had she pulled the wool over his eyes? Did she have help? A lover?

Who else? If you took into account that seventy or
eighty per cent of crimes were committed by someone in the immediate family.

Then it struck him - the maid. Whining Sylvia Buys,
only concerned about where she would find another job. Sylvia, who was so
terribly fond of Adam Barnard, so quick to lay the blame on Alexandra. He must
not overlook her. Motive? Anything. Had Adam caught her stealing? Confronted
her?

How well had the Geysers known Barnard? Would they
have visited the house?

Would one of them have known where to find the pistol?
He would have to find out. He would have to phone Griessel first, tell him he
had doubts about Alexandra, about the Geysers. Benny wouldn't like it.

Where was Mbali?

Someone knocked.

'Yes?'

Natasha Abader put her head around the door. 'There is
a policeman at the door. He says he wants to show you where they found a shoe.'

He jumped up. 'Thank you,' he said and walked over to
her. 'I want to talk to you again, please.'

She didn't look too ecstatic about that.

Dekker and the young black Metro policeman had to
shoulder their way through the journalists at the front door, over the tiny
lawn, pass the koi pond, through the access tunnel for the building to Buiten
Street. The press kept throwing questions at him like accusations, until they
shook off the last vulture on the corner of Bree Street. When would Cloete come
and sort out this chaos?

'Up there, around the corner,' the Metro man said and
they walked in silence. Dekker realised the southeaster had picked up and the
perfect summer day was gone. He looked up at the mountain. The cloud was
beginning to form on its tabletop like an omen. By late afternoon the wind
would be gale force; but then it was January, there was nothing you could do
about that.

The Metro man led him to a corner, they turned left
into New Church Street and crossed the road. Six paces further on he stopped
and pointed with his baton.

'Right there.'

'The shoe was lying here?'

'Just there,' the man confirmed. 'Almost in the
gutter.'

'You're sure of this?'

'This is where I found it.'

'You didn't look inside it?'

'Inside the shoe?' The man screwed up his face in an
expression of suspicion, as if he wasn't completely convinced of Dekker's
intelligence.

'I wouldn't have either,' said Dekker. 'Thanks a lot.'

'Can I go now?'

'Wait. I just want to know, did they ask you to pick
things up?' 'Yes, Senior Inspector Oerson sent us. We had to pick up anything
that might have been in a rucksack. Anything. Then I saw the shoe. I picked it
up and put it in the plastic bag. I found a hat too, over there on the corner
of Watson Street. But that's all. I took it to Abrams, he had the big rubbish
bag. I put it in the big rubbish bag. Abrams took the big rubbish bag to Senior
Inspector Oerson, because he said he wanted to see everything.' He was thorough
and systematic, as though he still harboured doubts about Dekker being the
sharpest pencil in the box.

'Thank you. That's all I wanted to know.'

The man nodded, turned around and strolled away,
swinging his baton, one hand on his cap to protect it from the wind.

Dekker considered the spot where the shoe had lain.
Then the corner of New Church and Buiten. About two to three hundred metres
from AfriSound.

What was the significance of that?

He took out his phone. It was time to call Benny
Griessel.

The Metro Police licensing department told Vusi the
Peugeot Boxer panel van, CA 409-341, belonged to CapSud Trading ...

'Spell that for me, please,' Vusi asked.

'Capital letter C, a-p, capital letter S, u-d ... the
contact person is a Mr FrederikWillem de Jager, the address is Unit Twenty-one,
Access City, La Belle Street in Stikland.'

'Thank you very much,' said Vusi.

'But there's a tag on it,' the woman said. 'The
vehicle is in the pound.'

'Which pound?'

'Our vehicle impound. Just here next to me in
Greenpoint.'

'Is it there now?'

'That's what the system says.'

Vusi thought it over. He asked: 'Do you have a phone
number for de Jager?'

'Yip.' She gave it to him.

Griessel stood at the big table holding a sheet of
paper with two numbers on it. One of them was his cell phone number. The other
was a Cape number that he did not recognise. He studied the handwriting,
comparing it to the notes in tiny, almost illegible scribbles on the hordes of
documents strewn across the table. The numbers were written in larger, rounder
and more feminine script.

Rachel Anderson?

He dialled the other Cape number. Three rings and a
woman answered with a distinctive accent. 'United States Consul, good
afternoon, how may I help you?'

'Oh, sorry, wrong number,' he said and terminated the
call.

'Gourmet Foods, good afternoon,' a woman's voice
answered.

'Is that not CapSud Trading?'

'This is CapSud, trading as Gourmet Foods.'

'Could I speak to Mr de Jager, please?'

'Who is this speaking?'

'This is Inspector Vusi Ndabeni of the South African
Police Service.'

'Mr de Jager is deceased, Inspector.'

'Oh. I'm sorry. When did he pass away?'

'Four months ago.'

'I am calling to enquire about a Peugeot Boxer panel
van, registration CA four-oh-nine, three-four-one, that is registered in the
name of CapSud Trading.'

'That must be the stolen one.'

'Oh?'

'We bought it early October last year, then we sent it
to the sign writers to have our logo applied. It was stolen that very night
from the sign writers. And you never caught them.' Accusatory.

'Are you aware that the vehicle was in the
Metropolitan Police pound?'

'Yes, they recovered it in Salt River, in a Fire
Service parking spot, so they towed it away and impounded it and called us.
That was mid-October.'

'Why have you never collected it, ma'am?'

'Because when Frik died everything was frozen. Nobody
could draw money or sign a cheque, and the estate will only be wound up in two months'
time. This is the New South Africa, you know, you have to wait and see.'

'So, as far as you know, the panel van has been in the
pound ever since?'

'Must be, because every week someone phones and says
we must come and pay the fine and collect it, and the more I explain about
Frik, the less it helps because next week someone else phones.'

'You are Mrs ...?'

'I am Saartjie de Jager. Frik's wife.'

'May I ask how Mr de Jager died, ma'am?'

'Cholesterol. The doctor warned him, I warned him, but
Frik wouldn't listen. He was like that all his life. Now I'm the one trying to
clear up the mess.'

Everything happened at once. Griessel waited
impatiently at the big table for his contact at Telkom to get back to him, John
Afrika walked gingerly past the blood in the hallway, looking at it in horror,
saying:
'Nee, o, jirre
,'
Griessel's cell phone began to ring and Vusi came through the front door with
an excited 'Benny!'

He thought it was the Telkom man, turned away from his
colleagues and answered it. 'Griessel.' Through the window he saw Mat Joubert
walking up the garden path.

'Benny, it's Fransman.'

Too much at once. 'Fransman, can I call you back?'
Behind him the Commissioner said something reproachfully.

'Benny, just a quick one, how sure are we that
Barnard's wife and Josh Geyser are not involved?'

He needed to tell Afrika that he had asked Joubert to
come, before there were fireworks. 'Don't know,' he said, his mind not on the
conversation.

'So I can question them some more? I'll get Mbali to
talk to Alexandra ...'

The female detective's name forced him to focus.
'Don't you know yet?' he asked.

'What are you doing here?' he heard John Afrika say
behind him. He turned. Joubert had entered the room. He put his hand over the
receiver as Dekker asked, 'Don't I know what yet?'

'Commissioner, I'll explain,' said Griessel and then
to Dekker: 'Mbali was shot, Fransman. Here in Upper Orange, the American
girl...'

Dekker was dumbfounded.

'She's in hospital,' Griessel said.

'The American girl? What was Mbali doing there?'

'That's what I wanted to ask you.'

'How would I know? I sent her to Jack Fischer.'

'Jack Fischer?' he asked in surprise, and then
realised it was the wrong thing to say with both Afrika and Joubert nearby.

'They did some work for AfriSound, but I think it's a
dead end. Is Mbali OK?'

'Fransman, we don't know, I'm sorry, I have to run.
Talk to Geyser again if you think you should. I'll call you later.' He ended
the call and said: 'Commissioner, I asked Mat to come and help.' Afrika's face
began to screw up in protest but Griessel didn't give him the chance. 'All due
respect, Commissioner,' he began, knowing that what he was about to say was not
respectful at all, but he didn't give a damn any more, 'you said there's a
manpower problem. Mat is ... underutilised at PT, he's the best detective in
the Cape and I have an American girl that I have to find, whatever it takes.
You can fire me tomorrow, you can demote me to Inspector or Sergeant if you
like, but, fuck knows, there's no time to waste. Vusi is working on the panel
van they took Rachel Anderson away in, I am going to find out who the hell knew
she was in this house. We don't have time to process the scene and I need
someone who knows what he's doing. You said I must phone Rachel's father, and I
will do it, but not before I know what is going on. Because he is going to ask
me and I want to have answers that will satisfy a girl's father. So, please,
let's skip the shit and get the girl.' Then he added a final, hopeful: 'With
respect, Commissioner,' and waited for the guillotine to drop.